


Art Imitates Life

by Sarahtoo



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Established Phrack, F/M, October trope, There's fanfic in our universe, but fun i hope, it's almost fourth-wall breaking, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 20:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12440769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarahtoo/pseuds/Sarahtoo
Summary: Phryne takes a case to find a missing young woman, and in the course of investigation, she finds more than she (and Jack) expected.My entry for the October trope challenge, "breaking the 4th wall." It almost fits. :D





	Art Imitates Life

“Please, Miss Fisher, won’t you help me?” The woman sitting in Phryne’s parlor dabbed her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief that matched the lacy veil that draped over the edge of her hat brim. Though her face showed her age, it was only in the wrinkles near her eyes and nose and the smattering of gray that threaded through her neat coil of brown hair. Phryne regarded her with a sympathy that was only slightly edged with impatience over the woman’s histrionics.

“I’ll be happy to take the case, Mrs. Ogilvy,” Phryne assured her. “The police are correct—it’s most likely that your Ophelia has merely taken a weekend away with friends, but I’ll do what I can to track her down all the same.”

“Thank you,” Mrs. Ogilvy reached out a lace-gloved hand to grasp Phryne’s. “It’s not like my girl to go away without letting me know. She tells me everything!” The older woman’s brown eyes were wide, and her voice was suffused with gratitude.

“I’m certain she does,” Phryne said, certain of no such thing. “Do you have a key to her flat? It would help if I could look through her things, get a feel for where she might have gone.”

“Of course,” sniffling, the older woman dug through her lace-covered handbag and pulled out a large brass key and a card. Taking out a silver pen, she wrote quickly across the back of the card, stopping regularly to raise her hankie to her nose or eyes. “Prudence said that you would help. She said that you were the best detective in Melbourne, even if you are a woman.” 

Phryne’s eyebrows shot up at this, and she worked to keep from rolling her eyes. Every moment she spent with Edith Ogilvy made her more certain that young Ophelia had merely needed a moment to breathe away from her mother’s suffocating attention. 

“Well, I do find that women are often more capable than we’re expected to be.” Phryne’s dry words seemed to float over the other woman’s head as she accepted the card and the key.

“Here is the address to Phelie’s flat, and the name of her landlady. I’m sure Mrs. Johnson will give you any help you might need. And don’t let her tell you the rent is due—I’ve paid through the end of the year.” Mrs. Ogilvy sniffed slightly, this time in disapproval, then gathered her bag and stood, the lacy skirts of her day dress floating softly around her. Phryne eyed the dress with distaste. She’d been ready to dislike Mrs. Ogilvy from the first moment she’d seen her, on the strength of her overabundance of lace alone. 

Phryne stood to shake the woman’s hand one more time and nod to Mr. Butler to see her out. After she’d gone, Phryne sighed. She doubted this case would take long, and she truly didn’t anticipate finding that Ophelia had been a victim of foul play, but she would investigate. With a shake of her head, she moved to pull on her khaki driving coat and hat; they contrasted nicely with her pale green blouse and white trousers, and she smoothed her hair around her ears in the mirror beside the door. 

“I’m going out, Mr. B,” she called, “I’ll be back for dinner!” 

Her estimable butler appeared in the doorway to the dining room. “Will it be just you for dinner this evening?”

“I believe so,” Phryne confirmed, pulling on her (thankfully non-lacy) driving gloves. “Though I may stop in at the station and see whether the inspector has plans.”

“Very good, madam. I’ll be certain to make enough that the inspector won’t go hungry.”

“I can always count on you, Mr. B!” With a grin and a small wave, she swept out of the front door. With any luck, she’d have this case solved before pudding.

 

* * *

 

Ophelia Ogilvy’s flat showed a style that was very different from that of her mother’s, Phryne discovered as she let herself in. Her furnishings were simple and classic, in warm browns and cheerful yellows, with nary a piece of lace in sight. Phryne wandered through the rooms, looking for something out of place. The flat was large, with two bedrooms, a parlor, a kitchen, and separate bathing and powder rooms, and the warm colors continued through it. 

The first bedroom was obviously just that—Ophelia’s bedroom—and Phryne poked carefully through her things. A good-sized gap on an otherwise full shelf indicated that perhaps a suitcase was missing, and holes in the girl’s meticulously organized drawers seemed to suggest that she’d taken lingerie and nightwear with her, wherever she’d gone. Phryne stifled a laugh when she opened a wide drawer in the younger woman’s armoire to find a froth of lace—doilies, tablecloths, lace-trimmed kitchen towels, even what looked like a commode cover. Likely gifts from the girl’s mother.

Shaking her head, she moved to the bedside tables. Perhaps there was a notation there of where she might have gone.

The bedside table yielded a stack of notepaper and a pen, plus an elegantly made board clip, its silver clip holding a half-dozen sheets of paper. Phryne tilted her head. Maybe Ophelia liked to work in bed? Sliding the board clip back in the drawer, Phryne slid it shut and opened the door beneath it. Three large leather scrapbooks had been stowed there; Phryne pulled one out.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she flipped through the book, her eyes growing larger and larger with every page. Setting it to one side, she reached for the second one and flipped through it as well. It held similar contents, as did the third. Carefully replacing two of the albums, she picked up the third. It bore further investigation.

The scrapbook under her arm, Phryne continued her search—she finally found what she was looking for in the kitchen. A calendar had been pinned to the wall, and a note had been pencilled in on the square for the previous Wednesday: “Mrs. Moller’s Holiday Cottages, 7 days”. Apparently dear Phelie was having an adventure.

Shaking her head, Phryne left the flat, carefully locking the door behind her. She’d head home and read the contents of this album—she had three days to return it to Ophelia’s flat without her being any the wiser.

 

* * *

 

“Good evening, inspector.”

Phryne heard Mr. Butler’s warm greeting through the closed parlor doors when Jack arrived. It was late, but Mr. B was used to that by this time. It was a rare day that Jack actually got away early enough to eat with her.

“Can I get you some supper, sir?”

Phryne heard the rustle of fabric as Mr. B took Jack’s coat.

“Thank you, Mr. Butler, that would be most welcome.” 

Jack’s voice always sent a shiver down Phryne’s spine, but right now, it affected her even more. She’d spent the afternoon reading through Ophelia Ogilvy’s scrapbook, and she was feeling rather… stimulated.

“Miss Fisher is in the parlor, sir. I’ll bring you a tray shortly.”

Phryne looked up from where she lay in front of the fire as Jack let himself into the parlor. His smile when he saw her, stretched out on the rug in her peach pajamas, was indulgent.

“You look comfortable,” he said as he moved toward her. He’d shrugged out of his jacket and now just wore his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. Phryne smiled to see him so at home in her space.

“I am, mostly,” she replied, lifting her face to his kiss as he settle down beside her on the rug.

“What do you have there?” He looked over at the scrapbook, which Phryne had closed.

“Contraband,” she admitted. Quickly, she filled him in on the Ogilvy case. “I’m certain that Ophelia planned her absence. She’s either on holiday with her friends or she’s having a getaway with a man. I won’t know for sure until I call the holiday cottages in the morning.”

“And yet you have contraband?” Jack turned to the door as Mr. Butler came in, bearing a tray with a plate of sandwiches. “Hold that thought.” He turned a warm glance on the older man. “Mr. Butler, you are a marvel. Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble at all, inspector.” Mr. Butler’s smile was pleased, and his kind eyes shone. “Can I pour you a whiskey, miss?”

“Yes, please, Mr. B,” Phryne said, holding up her glass. He took it with a nod; when he returned he handed Phryne’s back and set another glass beside Jack’s plate.

“Unless you need anything else, miss, I think I’ll head to my rooms.”

“I’m certain we’ll do just fine, Mr. B. Thank you.” After the butler had left, she went on. “I’ll finish telling you once you’ve eaten. Until then, how was your day?”

Jack tucked into the sandwiches with relish, a small moan of happiness escaping him as the flavors hit his tongue. Phryne sipped at her whiskey as he ate, enjoying the fact that she had a hand in making him that happy; she loved to watch his face as he talked about his job and the decisions, large and small, that he’d had to make that day. 

Swallowing his last bite, Jack moved to take off his shoes, tucking his socks neatly inside them, then shucked his waistcoat and tie, laying both over the end of the chaise. Whiskey in hand, he nudged Phryne with his hip and stretched out beside her, propping himself up on his elbow.

“Now. What was that about contraband?” 

“Well, interesting story, Jack.” She shifted a little and patted the cover of the album. “I found this in young Miss Ogilvy’s bedside table. There were two others, and all three consisted of photos from magazines and newspapers, plus some handwritten pages. The others featured Rudolph Valentino and Greta Garbo. ”

“Whole albums? A little obsessive, really, but nothing terribly out of the ordinary. Why take this one?” He lifted his whiskey to his lips. She watched his tongue through the crystal glass as he took a drink, and felt herself shiver.

“Because, Jack,” she drawled. “This one is about us.” Setting her whisky on the floor, she opened the album to show him.

Open, the book lay flat against the floor, and the first page had been written out in large and flowing cursive handwriting. _The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher and Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson._ Beneath the title, which the author had traced over multiple times, the letters bold and thick, was a smaller subtitle: _An adventurous love story by Ophelia Ogilvy._

Jack read the title and darted a glance at her, then back to the book. “What… what is this?”

“Oh, it gets better, Jack.” 

She turned the page, and Jack saw the now-infamous shot of the two of them that had appeared in the Melbourne paper during the tennis murder case they’d worked. This was a photo, though, not a newspaper clipping—she would have had to go to the paper or directly to Frederick Burn to get hold of it. The black-and-white image was centered on the page, and Ophelia had drawn flowering vines around it, covering the rest of the page with colorful watercolors.

On the facing page were two pieces of notepaper; they had been glued in place and were covered in flowing handwriting.

_The Saga of Phryne and Jack_ was centered atop the first piece. _The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher and Senior Detective Inspector Jack Robinson met in late July, 1928, over a dead body. John Andrews had been murdered in his own home; his wife had been a particular friend of Miss Fisher’s for some years, and our intrepid socialite arrived on her doorstep for a prearranged luncheon as the investigation into Mr. Andrews’ death commenced._

_Miss Fisher saw the handsome police officer heading up the grand home’s main stairs and followed him—she was drawn almost immediately to his good looks and toned physique. When the inspector turned at the landing, he looked back to see the raven-haired beauty following him; he didn’t know who she was, but he knew he wanted to know._

“What the…” Jack rolled to lie on his stomach beside Phryne.

“I know, Jack! It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? But she’s clearly done her research. The fact that she knows that we met during Lydia Andrews’ case means that she did some digging, even if she did get the facts wrong.” 

“Or made them up,” Jack muttered. “All I felt for you that first day was annoyance.”

Phryne slanted him an amused look. “And she’s clearly a frustrated writer of some kind. I mean look at this.” She flipped ahead several pages, then read aloud. “ _Phryne leaned close to Jack, curious about the evidence he’d spread across his desk. Breathing deeply, she relished his scent. Just because she’d promised herself not to tempt him away from his marriage vows didn’t mean that she didn’t long to move closer, to kiss his lips and let him touch her._ ” She broke off at Jack’s sputtering laugh. “She’s not really wrong there—I wanted you well before I was allowed to have you.”

Jack’s amused eyes met hers, and she watched his expression soften into tenderness. Leaning forward, he kissed her softly, his lips gentle on hers. Phryne tilted her head to kiss him back, breathing deeply of the scent of him—whiskey and bay rum and man—as she stroked her tongue into his mouth.

Breaking the kiss by only millimeters, Jack spoke against her lips. “What else does she say?”

“Mmm, according to Miss Ogilvy, we consummated our relationship at my aunt’s house the night of my cousin Guy’s engagement party.” She imagined her words spilling over his lips, and Jack slipped one arm around her waist, pulling her close, his belly against her hip.

Jack tilted his head in acknowledgement. “I wouldn’t have resisted you that night if we hadn’t been derailed by the case.” Phryne smirked, leaning in to kiss him again; his hand on her waist moved down to cover her bottom and squeeze lightly.

“She also,” Phryne whispered against his lips, “was very clear that we have been shagging any- and everywhere we go since then.” She kissed him again, rolling over and pulling him with her. “Here in my house, at your house, across your desk at the station, in the car, on weekend getaways…” She slid her hands up under his arms, flattening her palms across his back. 

Jack slid a leg over hers, nudging his thigh up against her as he deepened the kiss. His hand slid beneath the hem of her pajama top, his palm warm as he covered her breast. Phryne arched into him, curling to throw her leg over his and press herself against his hardness. As his kiss had its usual effect on her body, she bunched her hands in the back of his shirt, pulling the tails out of his trousers. When his braces constricted the passage of her hands up his naked back, she growled into his mouth and moved to push them off of his shoulders. Laughing silently, Jack helped, stretching to pull off the braces while Phryne moved to his buttons.

“I have been thinking since this afternoon about us doing the things she thinks we’ve been doing,” Phryne murmured, her hands greedily sliding over his skin. 

“Is it different from what we usually do?” Jack’s hands unfastened the button at her hip and then slid inside the back of her pajama trousers’ waistband, pushing them down her thighs. Phryne kicked her feet carefully to help him remove them, then promptly wound her legs around his again.

“Not as imaginative as we tend to be,” she said on a gasp as he pushed up her pajama top and covered her breast with his mouth. He slid a hand between them to cup her sex, his long fingers sliding deftly between her nether lips to rub her clitoris. “Oh, yes, there,” she whispered. “But she says something about how it’s clear from the way we behave in public that when we’re in private, we are considerably close.”

“Like this close?” Jack murmured against her skin as he pushed a finger inside her body, sliding it gently back and forth as her hips echoed the motion.

“Mmmm, and even closer,” she agreed, moaning lightly as he nipped at the skin of her breast and added a second finger.

Jack raised his head and Phryne caught her breath at the look on his face—his eyes heavy-lidded with arousal, his lips reddened and wet. 

“Closer, Jack,” she whispered, and dropped her hands to his trouser fastenings, reaching inside to pull out his hardened flesh.

“Phryne,” he groaned softly as she stroked him.

“Closer,” she murmured, pulling one knee up and over his hip as she positioned his cock at her entrance. “As close as we can be.” 

She kissed him as he slowly slid into her body; she adored the stretching sensation of her body adjusting to his girth and the heat of his skin against hers. Jack’s hand dropped to her hip, his fingers biting into her buttock as his mouth ate at hers, and Phryne’s fingers slid into his hair, holding him close.

They rocked together, their mingled breaths sounding loud in the quiet room. Jack rolled his hips, pressing her clitoris as he sank deep, and Phryne’s climax swept over her in a wave. She shuddered, her mouth open against his, and Jack sped up, his thrusts sharp and shallow. Within moments, he reached his own peak, his hips pressing hard into hers as his body jerked in release. 

Phryne’s kisses became softer, more tender, and Jack swept his hand up her back to pull her close to his chest, his cock softening within her. He buried his face in her neck, and Phryne did the same, inhaling his scent as her body relaxed.

“Well, your little gossip gatherer is right about one thing,” he murmured.

“Mmm?” Phryne laid a soft kiss against the skin beneath his ear.

“We do tend to shag when we’re in private.” 

She could hear the amusement in his voice, and she laughed a little. “True. Though perhaps not quite as much as her stories would have it.”

“Not for lack of trying,” he said, raising his head and pressing a kiss to her lips.

With a grin, Phryne pulled away slightly. “Shall we adjourn to the bedchamber, inspector? I can read you a few of the more interesting passages as we prepare ourselves.”

“Prepare ourselves?” He echoed, narrowing his eyes a little and tilting his head, the amusement clear on his face for those who knew to look. “For what, Miss Fisher?”

“Well, I was thinking that we’d sleep, darling,” she admitted, looking at him through lowered lashes, “though if you have other intentions, I’m willing to listen.”

“I am sure that my intentions will become clear,” he said as he tucked himself away. “It’s yours I’m worried about.”

“No need to worry, Jack,” she purred, sliding her legs into her pajama trousers and sending him an insouciant grin. She leaned in close, her eyes on his. “I promise that you’ll enjoy every minute.” With a quick kiss, she pulled back and stood, the album in her arms.

Jack stood, his trousers fastened and his shirt open, gathering his clothes and shoes, and Phryne watched him with avid eyes. She had another page or two of this album that she intended to read him before she seduced him again. 

She wondered what Ophelia Ogilvy would say if she could see Jack now? It was obvious from her writing that the girl found Jack attractive. Sometimes, the Phryne in her stories seemed more like a version of Ophelia herself. Not that Phryne could blame the girl. Jack had starred in her fantasies many times before they’d become lovers. It was just too bad that Ophelia would never know just how weak her imaginings were compared to the real thing.

“Waiting for me, Miss Fisher?” Jack’s eyes twinkled as he brought her out of her musings, and Phryne tilted her head at him with a smirk.

“Just admiring the view, darling,” she said, and sauntered out of the parlor and up the stairs, knowing that Jack would be right behind her.

 

* * *

 

When Phryne knocked on Ophelia Ogilvy’s door three days later, it was with the knowledge that the album about herself and Jack was safely back in its place beside Ophelia’s bed. She’d brought it back the night before, after reading it thoroughly and taking notes for later adventures with Jack. Ophelia was rather inspired when it came to lovemaking locations, though her ideas about sexual positions were a bit pedestrian. Phryne chalked that up to inexperience.

Ophelia opened the door with an inquiring expression. She was small, with dark brown hair that swung jauntily at her jaw in a cut very similar to Phryne’s, and warm brown eyes very like her mother’s. She wore a fashionably cut dress of deep blue that flattered her coloring and her curvy figure.

The look on the younger woman’s face when she recognized Phryne bordered on comical. The smile on her face melted into shock, her eyes widening and her mouth dropping open in an O of surprise.

“Oh my goodness,” Ophelia whispered. “You’re Phryne Fisher. _The_ Phryne Fisher. And you’re here.” She seemed frozen in place. “I am _such_ a fan, Miss Fisher, you have no idea. I have read all of the articles about you, and your work with Detective Inspector Robinson is just… _inspiring_. I can’t even tell you—”

“Thank you,” Phryne interrupted, her voice gentle. “Miss Ophelia Ogilvy, I presume?” 

Ophelia had rolled her lips inward, her mouth clamped shut—presumably to keep herself from nattering on any more—and now she nodded silently.

“I’m pleased to meet you.” When Ophelia didn’t speak or move, Phryne prompted her. “May I come in?”

“Of—of course,” Ophelia said, manners kicking in. She stepped backward, opening the door further, a smile creeping back across her face. “Please, have a seat. I… I could make some tea?” The younger woman glanced around her flat, as if looking for advice on how to proceed. She twisted her hands nervously together in front of her body, and her color was high.

“Oh, no, don’t bother yourself. I’m perfectly fine.” Phryne said. “Won’t you come sit with me?”

“Oh, yes. Of course. I’m so sorry, I… I’m a bit overwhelmed. I never thought…” Seeming stunned, Ophelia sank onto the couch opposite the armchair where Phryne sat. One hand gripping the armrest, Ophelia seemed to gather herself. “How can I help you, Miss Fisher?”

Phryne smiled and folded her hands comfortably across her handbag, which sat on her lap. “Well, to be frank, your mother hired me to find you when you didn’t return her calls.”

Ophelia gasped, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. “She _what_?” She closed her eyes for a moment, shaking her head. “Oh, Miss Fisher, I am so sorry. I had no idea that mother would go that far.” 

“She filed a police report, as well,” Phryne said mildly. “Perhaps the next time you go out of town, you should let her know.”

Ophelia grimaced. “I _should_ have, I know. It’s just… I went away with a—a friend, and I didn’t want to have to tell her all about it. She is very protective.”

“I have heard that Mrs. Moller’s cottages are lovely.” Phryne watched Ophelia as she said it, wondering whether the younger woman would understand the implication of her statement.

“They really were…” Ophelia sighed, a small smile flirting at the edges of her mouth. It took her a moment to understand what Phryne had said; when she did, her eyes snapped back to meet Phryne’s. “Wait, how did you know…”

“Your mother gave me her key,” Phryne began, pulling the key from her pocketbook and holding it out to Ophelia, who took it, seemingly struck dumb again. “I came in while you were gone to have a look around and make sure there hadn’t been foul play. I saw the entry on your calendar.”

“Oh, yes… my calendar,” Ophelia said faintly. She licked her lips, her eyes darting quickly toward her bedroom door. “And that… that’s how you found me?”

“Yes,” Phryne said. “I contacted the cottages and inquired after you. They told me that a woman matching your description had checked in under the name of Robertson three days before.” Phryne paused, then asked the question that had been on her mind since she’d made that phone call. “Tell me, did you choose ‘Robertson’ because it’s your beau’s name, or because it’s so close to ‘Robinson’?”

“Oh god,” Ophelia said, covering her face with her hands. “You found the scrapbook, didn’t you?”

When Ophelia glanced up through her fingers, Phryne nodded, keeping her expression nonjudgemental.

“It’s just a hobby, you know,” Ophelia said quietly, lowering her hands “I like to write—stories and such—and sometimes, it’s fun to write adventures for people whom I admire.” She bit her lip. “I don’t mean any disrespect by it, Miss Fisher. I hope you weren’t offended.”

“I wasn’t,” Phryne said, smiling slightly. “Some of what you wrote was admirably similar to some of my own thoughts.” She pursed her lips a little. “I assume, however, that those stories will never be published? They would not be good for my—or the inspector’s—reputation.”

“Oh, no, never!” Ophelia sat up straight, her face shocked. “They’re only for me to read… and perhaps my beau, but never for wider distribution!” 

“That’s good to hear.” Phryne let her expression cool. “I would hate it if I had to send my lawyers to _discuss_ things with you.”

Ophelia shook her head, her expression open and sincere. “That is never my intention, Miss Fisher. I wouldn’t do anything that would hurt you or the inspector.”

“Excellent. I’m glad we have an understanding.” Phryne tilted her head, allowing her smile to reappear. “You never answered my question. About the name?”

Ophelia grimaced. “Yes, about that. I just… my beau, as you call him, is Michael Greensmith. He’s a lovely man,” she smiled slightly, as if thinking of him, “and he… well, he has a bit of a crush on you, Miss Fisher.”

“On me?” Phryne felt her eyebrows rising. She hadn’t considered this.

“And we just thought it would be funny…”

“No, wait, on second thought, don’t tell me.” Phryne held up a hand to stop the younger woman, who had raised her hands to smooth her bobbed hair, a flush rising in her cheeks. Phryne didn’t begrudge Ophelia the role-playing that she seemed to be suggesting she’d indulged in, but she didn’t need to hear the details.

Ophelia laughed a little unsteadily. “Well, no, of course not.” She cleared her throat, glancing at Phryne, who stood.

“I think that concludes our business, Miss Ogilvy,” Phryne said, holding out a hand.

Ophelia stood, smoothing down her skirt before reaching out to shake Phryne’s hand. “Thank you for coming, Miss Fisher,” she said quietly. “It is an honor to meet you.”

Phryne laughed at that, and let go of Ophelia’s hand with a soft squeeze. “You’re very kind, Miss Ogilvy.” She turned and headed toward the door. As she opened it, she looked back to see the younger woman standing in the middle of her parlor, her hands clasped near her chest.

“And… if you do want to pursue your writing, I would recommend that you see Miss Regina Charlesworth at Women’s Choice Magazine. Tell her I’ll vouch for your writing.” Phryne sent the young woman a smile. “Though you’ll have to stick to the facts, I’m afraid.”

Ophelia gasped, her eyes going wide. “Oh, Miss Fisher, I—thank you so much!”

With a nod, Phryne let herself out, closing the door softly behind her.

 

* * *

 

“Wait, you mean they _roleplayed_ as us?” Jack’s horrified expression sent Phryne into peals of laughter. She sat comfortably on his kitchen table, hands propped behind her, legs crossed, watching him assemble a stew for their dinner. Her eyes stroked down his back, admiring the width of his shoulders in his casual white linen shirt and his canvas gardening trousers. Those did rather nice things for his… assets, she noticed.

“Well, she didn’t say as much in so many words,” she admitted when she could finally speak through her laughter, “but they did register as Mr. and Mrs. Robertson on their holiday, and her hair was cut very much like mine.” Lifting a hand, she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, her smile changing to a smirk as he set the lid on the stewpot and turned the heat down to let it simmer.

He wiped his hands on a towel as he turned to face her. Phryne felt her body loosen as she studied him. His skin shone burnished gold in the light that streamed in through the kitchen window—it was his day off, and he’d obviously spent some time in the garden. Catching her gaze, he tilted his head and reached a long arm to set the towel on the counter.

“Poor Mr. Greensmith,” he rumbled as he stepped close, pushing her crossed legs open so that he could step between her thighs. Settling his hands on the table beside her hips, he leaned close to brush his lips softly over hers. “He’ll have to continue to imagine the glory,” he ducked to one side to press a kiss to the base of her neck, and she arched to give him better access, “and power,” his lips trailed across her collarbone, “that is Phryne Fisher.”

Phryne let out a soft gasp as his hand stroked up to cup her breast through the soft silk of her dress, his thumb rubbing across her nipple, which hardened obligingly.

She lifted a languid hand to grasp the waistband of his trousers and curled one leg around his thigh. “Well, I don’t know, Jack, I didn’t see him—perhaps there’s an opening for me there.” When he pinched her nipple in retaliation for her cheek, the feeling shot directly to the nubbin of sensitive flesh between her legs, and Phryne gasped in shock even as she thrilled to the snort of laughter that he muffled against her neck. 

“God, Jack,” she managed, and he soothed the pinch with soft strokes. “I will say, though, having read her entire _oevre_ , I can vouch for the fact that her imagination doesn’t hold a candle to the real Jack Robinson.”

Jack lifted his head to look at her, and she saw all of the things she was feeling reflected in his blue eyes. Lust, love, trust, and humor all shimmered there. It was a heady mix.

“You know,” she murmured, her hands sliding to the fastenings of his trousers, “I wouldn’t object to a bit of the real Jack Robinson myself just now.” His eyes dropped to watch her open the fabric that covered him and slip her fingers inside. 

“Is that so?” His voice rumbled low and intense, rolling over Phryne and raising gooseflesh on her arms. Holding her eyes, he stroked his hands down and then up her thighs, pushing her dress upward to bunch around her hips.

“Mmmm,” she breathed, her attention on the silk-over-steel feeling of his cock against her palm. “This bit in particular.” She slid her hand further into his trousers, loving the way he sucked in his breath.

“Well, far be it from me to deny you,” Jack replied, his voice rumbly and deep, as his own fingers began to explore the heat between her legs. 

“Besides, Ophelia _said_ we’d made good use of this table. We can’t let our fans down.” She touched her tongue to her upper lip, her smile sly. 

“A sound argument,” Jack said, laughter in his voice as he stepped even closer. 

When he leaned in to cover her mouth with his, Phryne surrendered herself to the sensations of his kiss. Perhaps later, she’d tell him about the plan she’d conceived to set Ophelia’s record straight, but for now, she had something more important to do.


End file.
